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Sunday: 24.08.25
Arabel Plateau
Hermann
142 km / 2000 m elevation / 11h 11m moving time
Gabi
127 km / 1200 m elevation / 9h 40m
my video day 9:
When I think back to that day, so many thoughts come rushing in. Maybe what happened on day 14 would have turned out differently if I’d continued with Hermann from the Arabel Plateau onto the southern loop. But my body had other plans.
The infection I thought I’d shaken off came back. I felt drained, my cough was worsening, and the cold crept deep into my bones. The idea of riding more than 200 kilometers through such remote terrain, in that condition, felt wrong. I knew this wasn’t my day — not my stage.
It was hard to let go of the thought of just pushing on. But I had to admit to myself that this time, I needed to listen to my body — even if it hurt.
Between Rain, Rock, and a Hard Decision
A starry night, then morning clouds rolling in. Not long after setting off, the rain begins. Along the track, a few tents — the riders inside clearly wiser than we were, waiting for better weather.
The first stream crossing: almost made it through with dry feet, just a splash to remind me how cold wet feet would feel at this temperature. The next stream is less kind. I try to ride through — desperate to keep my feet dry — but lose balance. It happens in a flash: I’m down in the water, my left side soaked. Hermann, just behind me, drops his bike and rushes to help. The shock is written on both our faces.
The rain stops, but the cold stays. My feet are ice. I check my notes — somewhere ahead there should be a yurt that takes in guests, near the only bridge in the valley. The kilometers stretch endlessly.
Finally, the yurt. A group of German women is just leaving, accompanied by their guide — they’re heading up to the Arabel Plateau on horseback. Tempting, maybe, but sitting motionless on a horse? I’m freezing just standing here. I’ll stick with the bike.
Inside, warmth. Breakfast. The herder family lays out bread, jam, sweets, chai tea. I hang my dripping socks by the small stove, set my shoes nearby. My feet almost feel warm in the air. I sit at the table, still shivering — the tea feels like medicine.
Back on the road. The weather can’t make up its mind: sun, then rain, a few snowflakes in between. A short lunch break in a patch of sunlight — I spread my wet clothes on a rock, eat bread and sardines in tomato sauce. Then onward.
Not far now to the switchbacks leading up to the Arabel Plateau. The path alternates between meadow track and gravel, steep ramps appearing without warning. I feel weak, pushing sections. The stream crossings don’t help — my feet never dry. The coughing fits shake me. My thoughts keep circling: What if the weather turns worse? We’re between 3000 and 4000 meters, no signal, no forecast. A snowstorm at night — I don’t even want to imagine it.
Ahead still lies the Suyek Pass, and then, after a long descent, camping in the storm, below freezing — a grim prospect. But first, the climb. Brief sunshine, then rain again, and wind cutting through every layer. Hermann’s probably already at the top. I’m slow — snail slow. I can feel I’m holding him back.
Hermann waits in the storm. Two girls are riding and pushing their bikes alongside me. They’ll make it to the finisher party, no doubt. On the plateau, gusts hit like hammer blows. The media team passes, filming. My GoPro gives up — too cold, battery dead. The last images, lens covered in droplets, show the truth: cold, wind, exhaustion.
A light-blue container in the barren stone desert. Hermann fumbles the wire latch open. Finally, shelter from the wind — a place where we can actually hear each other speak again. Time to plan.
I voice what I’ve been thinking. If this weather continues — another night, another full day in this storm — I won’t make it. The coughing, the fatigue, the cold in my bones. I suggest going straight down to Issyk-Kul Lake, to Checkpoint 3. Hermann should continue the official route. For me, it would be just nine kilometers of climbing to the Barskaun Pass, then 55 downhill — manageable. I wouldn’t be slowing him down anymore.
The only pity: we’d both drop out of the race ranking. But in my mind, a plan forms — wait for him in Tamga, rest, then continue together over Tosor and Jukuu Pass.
When we leave the container, the media crew is there again, filming. A few more flat kilometers across the plateau to the junction — half an hour to think.
Then the moment comes. I know what I’ll do. I’ll turn left. It feels tempting — an escape from the storm. In my mind, I see images of mountaineers who didn’t survive the night in the open. I won’t take that risk. Snow is falling again, the wind near hurricane force. My decision brings a strange sense of relief. Looking up, I can see: it won’t get any better. At the crossroads, a quick kiss in the snowstorm — Hermann goes right, I go left.
Gabi:
The Road to Hell — Barskaun Pass
The road to the Barskaun Pass stretches ahead. A cyclist approaches — one of ours. The routes cross here. We exchange a brief wave, almost wordless — two figures in the gray. Only nine kilometers, I think. Just nine.
A few meters later, I know: this won’t be easy. The wind, which had been at my side, now hits me head-on. Icy. Relentless. Heavy snow begins to fall. Within seconds, a white crust forms on my glasses. I can’t see a thing. I wipe them again and again with my gloves, uselessly.
The gravel turns to slush, and heavy trucks thunder past — supply vehicles for the Kumtor gold mine, somewhere up there at 4000 meters. The center strip of the road is somewhat firm, but every time I hear a truck, I have to pull aside. The shoulder is deep mud — it clings to my tires, stops me dead.
Every time I hear an engine, I turn around in panic. Right then, I’d have climbed into any car, just to escape this inferno. If I’d had tears left, I would have cried — but even those felt frozen.
The fog thickens. The headwind almost stops me in my tracks. I crawl forward, sometimes pushing, sometimes stumbling. Eventually — after what feels like forever — I reach the top.
The Kumtor road appears through the mist, winding endlessly downhill — 2000 meters of descent. A descent from hell. The snow, melting on the road, turns it into thick, semi-liquid mud. My tires barely grip. It’s like aquaplaning — but on sludge instead of water.
I can’t see. The fog, the snow, my fogged-up glasses. I slide them down my nose to peek over the top — but then the hard snowflakes stab my eyes. Blind descent. My fingers numb, muscles stiff. Each switchback feels like a gamble. Every one I survive without falling feels like a small victory.
Trucks roar past, splattering me with mud. I can only hope they see me in time. My mind narrows to a single thought: just get down safely.
After about twenty kilometers, the fog finally lifts. I can see again, but my hands barely function. In one tight curve, my fingers fail — I can’t pull the brake hard enough. I drift across the road, end up in the emergency lane for runaway vehicles. Standing there, breathless, lost in the gray.
Then, out of the mist, a shape appears — a cyclist. He hands me a packet of cookies. I think I’m dreaming. He’s one of us. Right here, the hike-a-bike route from Tosor Pass rejoins the Kumtor road — the northern loop closes.
I take a cookie, mumbling thanks, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. He tells me about the brutal push section he’s just finished. I wish him luck for the climb I’ve just descended, and roll on.
The ground slowly firms up. The clouds break. In flatter stretches, I even start to warm up again. I’m caked head to toe in mud — my bike, my bags, myself, one solid crust of gray-brown.
The sky clears more and more. I can hardly believe it. Just before sunset, the valley opens up — and a wide, vivid rainbow arches over the horizon. Almost mockingly beautiful after a day like this. A few more kilometers into the glowing dusk. In the distance, the Issyk-Kul Lake shimmers.
Then finally: the hotel, Checkpoint 3. Finally. I can smile again.
A proof photo, then I peel off the layers of mud, walk barefoot into the warmth. Hot tea, real food — the world feels, if only briefly, in order again.
A kind volunteer arranges a guesthouse next door. At Olga’s, I arrive late. Leave the muddy gear outside, jump in the shower, then straight to bed.
Just before I fall asleep, my thoughts are with Hermann. He won’t have it as easy tonight. And I realize: I wouldn’t be here now if the routes hadn’t crossed at the Arabel Plateau. The descent to Tamga was tempting — yes — but it was the right choice. The cough still racks me, I’m spent, far from fit. Or… was I too quick to give up?
Doubt and reason wrestle in my head for a while — reason wins, for now. The decision on the Arabel Plateau might have saved me from something far worse. Luckily, I don’t yet know that nothing — not even this day — will compare to the drama of day 14.
Hermann
What’s on today’s plan? The climb to the Arabel Plateau, Suyek Pass, then the descent to the bridge.
For Gabi, it’s a rough day from the start. Her feet get soaked at the first stream crossing. At the next, she goes down completely — her left side drenched. Not a good beginning. Then the rain sets in. We slog along the rough track, meter by meter.
After a few hours, we reach the Aidana guest yurt. Inside — warmth, tea, coffee, bread, butter, jam. A precious hour of rest. Outside, the rain stops, even a few sunbeams. Around midday, we sit in the sun, eating fish, cheese, bread. Short calm before the next wave — dark clouds already piling up in the west. We move on.
Ahead, the steep ascent to the Arabel Plateau. I can ride almost all the switchbacks, only the last part forces me to push. Gabi and a few other riders are a bit behind when the snow starts falling.
Just before the top, I find a spot sheltered from the wind, pull on my rain gear, and wait. The snow thickens, the wind rises, soon it’s a storm. When Gabi arrives, we push on together — sidewinds nearly sweeping us off the track.
A container appears — wire-tied shut. We pry it open and crawl inside. Silence. Shelter. Time to think.
We discuss what to do. Gabi is coughing, clearly exhausted. She wants to head straight to Tamga before the cold gets worse. She insists I should continue the official route — “It’s just nine kilometers flat, then sixty down,” she says.
We reach the Kumtor road. Here our paths split — at least in race terms. Gabi turns left, I right, toward Suyek Pass. I watch her go, fighting through snow and wind, and feel miserable about it. Later she’ll tell me it was one of her toughest stretches ever — snow, sticky mud, trucks, headwind. Even the descent, sheer survival.
I have tailwind. About 300 meters of climbing to Suyek Pass. The snow sticks to the road, but I’m almost enjoying it. Finally some rhythm, some flow. I look forward to the 120-kilometer loop.
At the top, riders are coming back the other way — they’ll have to cross this pass again on the return. They’re fighting hard, faces tense, no smiles.
The descent is slick, I go cautiously. About 500 meters lower, the snow stops. The wind now lashes from the side, sweeping across the plain. Mountains shrouded in clouds.
Ahead, the valley opens wide — surrounded by peaks. Another short climb, maybe 300 meters, then a long descent to the gravel road along the river. Fifty kilometers through the open plain. The wind eases. Twilight sets in. On the far side of the valley, maybe ten kilometers away, I can see the lights of riders already on their way back. I’ll be there tomorrow.
My goal: the bridge, the loop’s turnaround point. I plan to bivouac there.
I reach it around half past nine. Been riding in the dark for hours. On the opposite bank, I find a decent spot for the tent. Another rider camps nearby.
The wind sweeps over the plain. I cook a quick meal, crawl into the sleeping bag. Tired, but content. I have no idea what Gabi is going through right now — out there in the storm, on the other side of the mountain.
